


Paint me red

by effer_vescencia



Series: What they used to be [2]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Maps Jean's life, you can read the parts individually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24762934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effer_vescencia/pseuds/effer_vescencia
Summary: Jean used to be a happy kid. Until it was ripped away from him.To find Jean’s beauty, you needed to acknowledge the ugliness and dissect his scars, and only then you could glimpse at what made him lovable.
Relationships: Jeremy Knox/Jean Moreau
Series: What they used to be [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790824
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	Paint me red

Jean used to be a happy kid. He loved the sun and the sea, the smell of sunscreen and the taste of ice creams. He hated when clouds obscured the sky, hated when sunrays didn’t graze his skin.

“My sunflower,” his mother called him. “How could you live without the sun, hein? Keep smiling like that, mon amour, and you’ll have smile lines by twenty!”

He hopped more than he walked, the day a constant game he was the hero of. He was seven and could go alone to the bakery, on his own, like a grown-up, and he would rehearse, whispering while walking _Hello madame, can I get a baguette? Not overcooked, please. Thank you very much, have a nice day!_

*

Jean’s mother was a beautiful woman. Her name was Emilie and she was tall with long black hair, pale like Snow White, with very dark eyes and gentle hands. Sometimes she cried when she thought Jean couldn’t hear her and he didn’t know why. During the day she seemed happy but at night she became this other person, darker and sadder and somber.

Jean’s father was even taller, his eyes cold and grey. His name was David and he didn’t like Jean very much. David was proud and held his chin high. Jean tried to imitate him, in the bathroom, looking at his reflection. He would straighten his shoulders, raise his brows, ever so slightly, and upped his chin. _There. I’m your son. I’ll look just like you._ Sons want to be their fathers, and little Jean was no exception. Even without his dad’s love, he was a figure he looked forward to, a statue carved in ice and steel, unbreakable.

*

Jean kept smiling because his mother told him so, but he stood straighter because his father wanted so.

*

Men in suits were always around the house and Jean was impressed. He wanted to be just like them, tall and strong and important. They talked with deep voices and moved their hands like a conductor.

The men smoked, a lot. There was a constant greyness in the house, and sometimes it was hard to breathe. His father always had a cigarette between his index and middle finger, at times lit, at times not. Jean wondered if it was glued. He never asked. There were ashtrays everywhere around the house, on the kitchen counter, two on the dinner table, and one by the sofa. They were rarely empty.

When he got bored, and it happened a lot when he was alone in the house, with no one around, his mom in her room and his dad on a business trip, he would take the ashtrays, spill them on the terrace floor by the pool, and with a little water, would draw symbols and figurines in the ashes. Once, he got caught by Emilie. But she just sat there and drew with him.

*

At school, he had friends and good grades and the teachers loved him. He was not the fastest one, but he was the best at soccer. Rose was his best friend: she was blonde and looked like Aurora the princess. People said she was pretty and that she was Jean’s amoureuse. Jean would blush and say that they were just friends, but the adults laughed and laughed. “We all say that,” they said. “Then one day you wake up and you married your best friend.”

Emilie wasn’t David’s best friend. They were not even friends. That’s what she told Jean, when he asked _Maman, are you and Papa friends like Rose and I?_ They fell in love, she said. A long time ago, when Jean didn’t even exist.

At nine, Jean didn’t really know what love was. Was it cold stares and screams and tears? It that was it, Jean didn’t want it.

*

Church was grey and cold and silent. You could only hear the priest’s monotone voice, stretching into the void, the scraping of chairs on the hard floor when they stood to sing. The whispers of prayers, the soft light coming through the stained-glass windows.

Emilie wore the same black dress every week, white pearls around her neck. David wore the same kind of suits he wore every day, bland and dark. Jean hated church, because it was long and dull and his parents would always stay to speak in a hushed tone with the adults, and the kids would just stand there, bored out of their minds. But Jean liked the stillness, and how his mother seemed so calm and rested while she listened to the choir singing. Just like when she would put on a vinyl and swing along with the melody, taking Jean along with her, and dancing, dancing, dancing.

*

Jean used to be naïve. He didn’t believe people could do him any harm, he was sure of it. He was a happy kid. But that didn’t last long.

*

It was a normal night. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary: men were sitting in the living room, cigarettes were smoked, filling the room with a grey thickness. But this time, Jean was allowed to sit with the adults, right next to his father, back straight. He didn’t smile, as his dad preferred to. The men were talking in a language he didn’t understand. Sometimes, he could hear his name, the way foreign people pronounced it, like a pair of _jeans_ , except _Jean_ was more like _cha_. If they talked about _him_ , it meant he was important and Jean was happy because _look, Papa, they think I matter_.

They left, leaving behind ashes and the pungent smell of tobacco. David’s hand pressed his son’s right shoulder. “You did good, son.”

Jean beamed.

Emilie came to find Jean in his bed that night and told him to be very quiet. That they were going to see Mamie and would stay with her for a while. “Will Papa come with us? Aren’t we going to tell him goodbye?”

Emilie didn’t answer. She had two bags in her hands. One was his. It was the Star Wars one. He only saw the movie once, with his father, one of the few times he was nice to him, and he so wanted to be like Han Solo because he was cool and handsome and got to kiss princess Laila (Jean didn’t really see the appeal, but his father said boys like him are supposed to like Laila. So he did).

“Are we going on an adventure, Maman?”

“Yes, mon amour. A rescue mission, just the two of us.”

“Who are we saving?”

“You, my love. Nobody’s going to take you away from me.”

But before she could start the car, David got out of the house, yelling. He opened the car door and took Jean in his arms. Jean gasped because that was the first time he ever felt his father’s arms around him.

Emilie started yelling too, and she cried at the same time, and Jean was scared because her face looked distorted by pain. It made him think of that painting they saw at school, _Le cri_ , except her hands weren’t on her cheeks but gripping the bags like they were a lifeline.

David took Jean into his room and put him to bed. But he couldn’t sleep because he couldn’t stop thinking of his mother’s face and the screams she made. She came, later that night, and whispered before he fell asleep, “Whatever happens, I want you to know that I love you more than anything in the world. More than chocolate and more than the sea. I want you to remember that you are a beautiful and kind boy, that you are sensible, and strong. I will always fight for you, Jean. And it might take a long time for you to come back, but I swear I will find you.”

*

The men came back. They told Jean he was going on a vacation trip to the _United States of America, can you believe this?_ That he was going to learn how to play Exy, that it was kinda like a summer camp, but longer. He preferred soccer but he didn’t tell them because they looked scary and a little mean. Jean was ten and he was leaving his parents for the first time _ever_. He could see his mother was trying very hard not to cry, and he didn’t understand. “Maman, I’m coming back, why are you so sad?”

She smiled, a very fake smile, and took him in her arms. He could feel her tears on his cheek. She said, “Please remember that I love you, okay?”

David crouched in front of Jean and put his hands on his son’s shoulders. “What you’re doing is what a man would do. You need to level up, or they will eat you raw. You understand?”

Jean nodded. He didn’t understand. It was just a summer camp, right?

*

It wasn’t. Summer became autumn and then winter and then spring and then summer again, and suddenly Jean was eleven.

*

Jean had heard of hell. Different versions existed, his mother told him. He remembered two: the one with Satan, and the one with Hades.

But he had never heard of Evermore.

*

Jean missed the sun.

*

They beat the French out of him. He was only allowed to speak it with his tutor, a cold man with yellow teeth, just so he could learn English and Japanese. During his third lesson, he learned what the word _friend_ meant. _Ami_. _Friend_ was Rose. He missed her.

Jean asked Riko, “Are you my friend?”

He thought he and Kevin were friends, because he chuckled when Jean made faces behind the Master, but he didn’t know about Riko, who liked to kick Jean on the shin when nobody was looking.

Riko laughed an ugly laugh, the kind that made you shiver. It didn’t suit a kid, but Jean often wondered if Riko weren’t a grown-up hidden in a child’s body.

“Nah. We’re not _friends_ ,” he answered. “I’m not friends with _property_.”

Jean didn’t know yet what property meant. Be he would soon enough.

*

Riko was jealous of everything and everyone and breaking and hurting was the only way he found to deal with his lessness.

He put a three on Jean’s cheek and he will never forget the sting and the buzzing and Riko’s laugh when Jean started crying.

*

Sometimes Riko was nice and it played with Jean’s brain. He would convince himself _see he’s not that bad_ until the next blow. Riko would tell Jean all about this new video game they absolutely had to try and Jean would win because he thought it was safe to do so but then Riko would break two of his fingers.

*

Jean was a human starving for affection. People would brush past him and his skin would prickle. He missed his mother’s hugs although he hated her so much because _why would she let me stay here?_

Then Jean turned sixteen and learned about another way touch could break you.

*

Jean was seventeen when Kevin kissed him for the first time. Kevin brought a bottle of vodka, they took shots and his skin was so warm where their arms pressed together.

“Can I try something?” Kevin slurred.

Jean could smell the vodka on his breath, but didn’t back away when Kevin leaned in. Strangely, his lips were soft. He let Jean decide on the next move.

They kissed again.

*

They were not a _thing_. Just each other’s comfort, warmth in an endless night. They weren’t in love. They kissed five times, on five different nights. Mostly, they held each other. But they didn’t hug. They gripped each other forearms and waited for the shaking to stop. They whispered in French and Kevin accent was still so _bad_ it sometimes made Jean laugh. His laughter sounded strange to his ears, forced and foreign, so he decided to stop because it hurt more than it pleased.

*

Kevin left.

Jean stayed.

For every interview, for every game, for every smile he gave on camera, Jean took a blow.

Jean wanted to hate him. But he couldn’t. Because Kevin had been there to clean his wounds, like Jean had been there for his. Because sometimes he would touch his cheek and hold him and that was the only affection he received in nine years and perhaps it was childish but how could you hate the only person that didn’t hit you on purpose in this place?

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t friendship. It wasn’t brotherhood. You couldn’t find a word to describe _if you behave he won’t hit you I’m sorry he did that I can’t believe he went this far oh my god Jean can you breathe Jean I need you to wake up_.

*

Neil Josten was there in the Nest and he looked so much like what Jean was during the first years. There was still _fight_ in him when now Jean was numb and weak and broken.

In this sick relationship, Jean was Kevin: he taught Neil the rules and stitched him up, another damaged toy in the darkness of Evermore.

Neil refused to use his father’s knives on him and Jean wanted to yell at him that he could handle it.

Jean dropped Neil at the airport and his whole being screamed for him to just _leave_.

He didn’t.

*

Two memories.

One was the face of a girl, hovering over him, while his own face rested in a puddle of his own blood. “Rose?” he asked. But it was Renee Walker, her hair a white halo and Jean thought _angel_.

Two was a room with blue walls, and Kevin sitting on a chair. Jean caught his eyes. Grey met green and Kevin asked, “Can I hold your hand?”

Jean didn’t answer. He simply extended his arm and tried not to flinch when Kevin’s finger grazed his. “I can’t even hold them. They’re all bruised,” he whispered, but something in his voice felt out of place because he sounded like he was crying but Kevin never _ever_ cried.

Right there, Jean broke. He let out an awful sound, coming from the bottom of his throat. _It hurts it hurts it hurts._ He felt Kevin coming closer, close enough for him to feel his warmth. “I wish I could fix us, Jean. I really wish I could.”

*

On his first night alone in his cramped new dorm room, Jean opened all the lights and all the windows. He talked to himself, sang to himself, prayed to himself. Swore to himself. _Putain, putain, putain_. His own voice as his only comfort. He held himself under three blankets, and waited for the void to stop feeling like hell.

But he had a lock on his door and nobody tried to enter the room without his permission and this made the loneliness a little easier.

*

California was hot and his skin was always sweaty and Jean felt so uncomfortable in his body it hurt. He wanted to sleep all the time and didn’t know how to function on twenty-four hours days anymore. He felt weird, like there was this feeling gnawing at his stomach at every second, something dark and disturbing he didn’t how to place.

France was grey and the Nest was black, but USC was all yellow and it blinded him.

*

Jean didn’t feel pain anymore but he felt empty and it wasn’t normal because he waited all his life for the pain to stop and now that it was gone he didn’t know how to live without it.

He’s waiting for Riko to appear at any moment, yelling in his ear, “Gotcha! What, you really thought it’d be that easy?”

And Jean hated himself for wanting to see Riko again, a familiar face amongst strangers.

*

Jean was mean. He was judgmental and made a rookie cry on her first day. There was only disappointment in Jeremy’s eyes and he couldn’t care less. Jean was also a liar, but that’s something he had yet to admit.

*

His first therapist said he feared he couldn’t deal with him and Jean was sent to see another one and then another one but Jean was too much for everyone. Until that one woman who listened to him listing all his scars without breaking eye contact and she said she will help him get better.

Now the emptiness was filled with hope and suddenly the sun didn’t hurt that much. 

*

Jean knew of Jeremy Knox. Everyone did. He was a prodigy, the sun personified, the guy Kevin used to have a crush on, all toothy grins and crinkly eyes. He had smile lines although he was not even twenty-three.

Once, Jean was supposed to be that kind of person, too.

Jeremy was the sun and Jean was the moon and they were never supposed to meet but here they were, an eclipse that lasted more than a single night, defying the laws of the universe.

*

They were laying on the beach. They shared one pair of earphones and Jeremy suddenly laughed.

“We look like emo teenagers in a bad movie.”

“I like it,” Jean whispered, like it was a secret. Jeremy tightened his grip on his hand.

*

“I know he’s not Riko. They couldn’t be more different. Riko is Riko. Jeremy is Jeremy. Different individuals, different souls. That much is obvious.”

“Some people, in the same situation as you, wouldn’t be able to make the difference. That’s why I asked you.”

“I do. Make the difference. And I know being – _close_ to him isn’t really advised. But I can assure you I know that being a captain does not make you a psychopath.”

*

“Are we friends?” Jean asked.

He wanted to know, because that night he dreamt of Rose and he missed having a friend.

“Of course we are,” Jeremy answered, simple as that.

And for three little seconds, Jean felt something close to happiness coming from the middle of his chest, spreading through his whole body.

*

Hunter Johns was the Trojans’ starting backliner until Jean. Which is why he pushed Jean against his locker and told him not to tell Jeremy or it would get worse.

Jean hated to admit it, but he was fucking scared. His heart beat _fast fast fast_ and _God, please, if you exist, don’t make me feel pain again_.

*

Jeremy talked a lot. He told stories with his hands and he always checked if Jean was really listening and once he was so taken in his story he fell and scratched his knee. He looked so betrayed and confused Jean laughed and laughed and laughed and he couldn’t stop. His stomach hurt but the good kind of hurt and it felt great and Jean wanted to do it again.

*

Having a friend was like this: someone to talk to, at night, when Jean suffocated alone in his room. Between classes, during practice, at lunch. It was playful smiles and laughter, runs on the beach and a hand at the small of his back when it was too crowded.

Someone to hug, too.

Jean was the first one to initiate a hug. His friend was having a bad day, and isn’t what friends are supposed to do? Tentatively, he took Jeremy in his arms, like his mother used to: one hand on the nape of his neck, the other one in the middle of his back. They were chest to chest, and for a minute, Jeremy froze. Then, he let his head fall in the crook of Jean’s neck, and they stayed like that, for a few minutes, barely moving.

It felt good.

*

Kevin came to visit.

“Red suits you,” he said.

“Because black didn’t?”

“Oh, it did. It’s just good to see you with something brighter, I guess.”

“Red’s the color of blood,” Jean supplied.

“Yeah, it is. But so is love and passion and apples. One color’s significance depends on your interpretation. It’s yours to choose.”

Jean laughed, “Did you switch your major to philosophy at Palmetto?”

“Nah. That’s you. Are cigarettes a part of that _liberal arts_ looks you’re trying to pull?”

Jean stared. Kevin ignored him, “I’m just saying that it won’t help your career if your lungs stopped functioning before you turn thirty. I know your _French genes_ give you an advantage, but still - ”

“Oh pour l’amour de Dieu, Kevin, ferme-la.”

*

“I wanted to be a doctor. I know it’s cliché as fuck, but like, we were at the hospital all the time, for my brother, and they were the ones trying to save him. And I just stood there, miserable, feeling completely useless. Then he died, and I guess it just didn’t make sense anymore.” Jeremy had that distant look in his eyes, as if he were engulfed in memories he didn’t want to recall. But he recovered quickly, “But tell me. What was your dream job, as a kid?”

“Painter,” Jean smiled. “I can’t draw for shit, but my mom bought me art supplies one day, and I would paint with her. She said I could be the next Picasso, because she never understood what I was trying to draw, like, _Is that a horse Jean?_ And I was like, so hurt, _Non maman, c’est un chat!_ But it made her happy. She hung my canvas everywhere in the house and my father hated it.”

“Do you blame them?” Jeremy spoke the words slowly, as if not to startle Jean. This was a question Jean asked himself a lot. To this day, he still didn’t have an answer.

“My mom tried to take me away. The night before. She said we were going to live with my grandmother for a while, but my father caught her. I just – I know he thought he didn’t have a choice. My father. But he didn’t like me. It was an easy way out.”

*

“Happiness is _bonheur_. It is different from joy, la _joie_. Because _le bonheur_ is supposed to last. It is a state, rather than an emotion. Some thought it was the goal of all human lives. Others thought it was impossible to experience it. You can only settle something _close_ to it. Real happiness? It does not exist.”

“And what do _you_ believe in?” Jeremy asked.

“If I believed in happiness, it would crush me. Because I would run after it only to discover it’s something that’s not made for me.”

What Jean didn’t say, is that he wanted happiness so much he could die.

*

People liked to talk about Jeremy’s smile.

Jean could understand. It was beautiful.

But they never talked about the way his mouth pressed into a thin line when a game started, how his eyes wrinkled when he made someone laugh, how his hands closed into fists when he tried very hard not to show he was angry.

*

Jean didn’t know if he was a good person. He didn’t dream a lot, but when he did, he kept seeing Neil Josten’s face and the pain in his eyes, and Jean would wake up with a thousand apologies on his mind.

*

Ichirou came and told him David died. The kid inside Jean broke.

*

“I hate Exy,” Jean admitted. “I hate it so much. I never enjoyed it. It meant pain and soreness and tears and Riko. And I can’t stop playing it until I settle my parent’s debt and now that my father’s dead… it feels like a life sentence and I’m so sick of it.”

*

“I planned on killing myself on graduation day. It was the only thing keeping me alive. Knowing _when_ the pain would eventually stop. And it was _my choice_. I would decide when and where and how I’d die.”

Jeremy looked at him, searching his face. “Do you still want to?” he asked.

“I wish I could give you an easy answer. Most of the time, _c’est non_. But there are still days when I – I’m just so tired. Like there’s this weight trying to pull me down. And I resist but it’s _so hard_. I don’t wanna die, Jeremy. If I did, I would’ve been long gone.”

*

Jean started to feel … _things_. And he didn’t know what to do about them. Like when Jeremy smiled at him with that strange look on his face and his heart would contract and he’d be hot all over and sometimes he would catch himself watching the place between Jeremy’s neck and his shoulder and think about kissing it. The same … _emotion_ would appear again when Jeremy’s t-shirt would rile up _just so_ and show his stomach and Jean’s treacherous brain would think _what if I kissed him right there?_

*

“You need to heal on your own, Jean. Your recovery cannot rest solely on Jeremy. You need to heal because you want to. You. Not for someone else, even if you care about that person more than you care about yourself. For now, it’s fine. But one day, you’ll want to be okay for _you_ and you only.”

*

“You’re a walking cliché,” Alvarez said. “Look at you, the whole attire: cigarette, dark suit, wild hair. All that’s left is a few notes on a piano out of tune, and there you are, the French man out of a movie from the 50s.”

Jean snorted. “You’re jealous because you can’t pull out this look.”

“You’re kidding, right?” she scoffed. “I wear suits better than all those white men back in that room. Be a gentleman, and gimme a drag.”

Jean handed her his cigarette. She winked and mirrored his posture. Her back and one foot resting against the wall, faking nonchalance. She took a hit. She exhaled. “See, I’m all French now, _Moreau_. Guess what? I even got the tragic backstory too, just fewer scars to show off. Still look badass, though.”

She gave the cigarette back to Jean but didn’t let go of his hand. “If it would’ve been me I wouldn’t have made it out alive. You’re a fighter and I don’t know where you find that strength but please, _please_ , keep going. You can get angry with me for saying that because it’s clearly overstepping your boundaries but seriously, Jean, you need to hear it.”

*

They were facing each other sitting on Jean’s bed. Their knees were touching. Jean traced the three moles on Jeremy’s face, forming a triangle. 

“You’re so good,” Jean said. “And it makes me angry because you don’t seem to realize how good you are.”

“Sometimes, I get angry, and I’m afraid it’s all I’m ever gonna feel”.

Jeremy was angry. And so was Jean. But he was also fierce and kind and smart and loyal and fair. He was golden and a summer morning, a warm breeze on a cold night. He was angry and that’s okay because he was so many other things too.

“It’s okay to feel angry. Everyone does. You’re good because you don’t use it as a way to destroy. That’s what _he_ did. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you, Jeremy”.

“And how do you see me?”

Jean thought of his mother’s words, that ran through his head when he didn’t hate himself too much. _“I want you to remember that you are a beautiful and kind boy, that you are sensible, and strong.”_ So he said:

“Kind and patient and sensible and strong and handsome and beautiful.”

Jean kissed Jeremy for three little seconds and that was the boldest he has ever been and for now, it was enough.

*

Sometimes Jeremy would snuggle in Jean’s neck like a kitten and then would look at him like he was everything and the entire world and the entire universe and Jean felt so much love he felt like collapsing.

*

Jeremy chose not to go pro. Jean wished he could make this choice too.

*

Jeremy was handsome. He was all tan skin and warm eyes and toothy grins. People looked at him when he entered a room, their gaze following him as if he were the last man on earth. Jean was pale and closed off, snarled more than he smiled, but Jeremy chose him nonetheless.

Jeremy was the kind of painting that was beautiful no matter the interpretation. To find Jean’s beauty, you needed to acknowledge the ugliness and dissect his scars, and only then you could glimpse at what made him lovable.

*

Jeremy kissed his cheek and his nose and his other cheek and his chin and his lips. “You’re beautiful,” he said. He traced the three on Jean’s cheekbone and the scar that went from his left eye to his jaw. “You’re a work of art. I wish I knew how to draw to carve your face on any canvas and wall and piece of paper, so everyone could see how beautiful you are. I would paint you red and gold, dark blue and soft grey, I would draw the curve of your lips in the sand and watch it disappear with the waves. You deserve to have your portrait in every museum, in every mansion. Your place is among all the masterpieces of the world.”

Jeremy cupped Jean’s cheek and looked at him with so much adoration Jean practically melted. “You’re blushing,” he continued. “It’s a good look on you.”

*

“Hey, Jean. I love you.”

*

Jean saw his mother for the first time in thirteen years and all he could do was stand there while she ran to him and held him and cried and whispered frantically _Mon fils, mon fils, mon fils_. They were _La Pietà_ of Michelangelo in the middle of a fucking airport and it could be beautiful if they weren’t so broken. 

She seemed so fragile when he finally, _finally_ held her back.

“I promised I would find you, mon amour.”

*

They stood facing each other in his and Jeremy’s apartment, mother and son, son and mother, and she asked, “Show me.”

He took off his shirt and she gasped and fell on the floor and she screamed.

Jean knew his scars were ugly but Jeremy touched them with so much love that he forgot they came from pain.

*

“When he died, it’s like I got my freedom back,” she said. “We watched every game you played, every interview, and each time I would beg him to let me contact you, but he said they would kill you if we tried to reach for you and I believed him because it was easier. I really thought you were safe. Nobody knew they did _this_.”

*

They were on the beach and Jean was holding Jeremy’s hand. His hair was long now and it kept getting out of the bun that Laila insisted he did every morning. “Look at you, Moreau. Aren’t you a sight for the eyes,” she’d say.

Jeremy had sand on his face and he was so beautiful with the sun dancing on his face Jean couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Hey, Jeremy. I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> Thank you for reading. If you've enjoyed this, please write me something, it's always a pleasure to discuss my writing with others (and it usually makes my day!)
> 
> I hope I made Jean's character justice. Contrary to Jeremy's part, there are a lot more pieces of information I could work with. I tried to stay as close to canon as possible. 
> 
> Thank you for everyone who read Set me free. It was my first fanfic, the first time I read in English, and the feedback has been amazing<3
> 
> Once again, English isn't my first language. If you've spotted mistakes, please let me know! (Also, I'm not sure about the rating: should it be mature?)
> 
> I may be working on Raven!Jeremy multi-chap, tell me if that's something you would be interested in!
> 
> Stay safe!<3


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